Knots
by thefireplanet
Summary: Before Flynn there was Eugene, before the floating lights there were the stars, before Rapunzel there was a baby girl, and before Mother there was Gothel; a story of beginnings, before things were just plain tangled.
1. Prologue

**a/n:** so i wasn't going to post this till the weekend, but...yeah. ITS SO SHORT. it'll get longer, i swear, but this is just a prologue and i kinda have school tomorrow so. homework precedence and all.

anyway, this is a weird idea. but basically it will be a series of one shots, chapters, vignettes, following the main characters of Tangled before they met on that fateful day. i wanted to get a little feedback, see if it was something people were interested in reading. if so, would you guys like a certain character to be in chapter one?

please, as always, read and review.

* * *

_Prologue: Clove Hitch_

_A simple knot to tie a rope to a post._

When the sky cries, drops as clear as crystal rain upon the earth below, wet and refreshing and cool. When the moon cries, shine like diamonds, unable to reach the ground, fly up to the heavens as stars. When the earth cries, roaring mountains tumble to the surface and a great, fiery heat scorches the countryside. But when the sun cries, only a single tear is shed. A single, golden, molten drop.

It falls and falls and falls, through cloud and rain and wind, pulsating brightly in the darkness until it hits the ground where, without a sound, it fades into the grass.

Or this was the case, at least, when the sun cried the last time. You see, it does not do so quite so often as the moon, the sky, or the earth. The sun is a creature of habit. The sun is a creature of brightness. Rarely does it become saddened enough to lose a tear.

Sometimes this sun-drop falls into the ocean, where the currents dilute its power, unless a fish can get to it first. Sometimes it falls in the great-deserts, where no one can reach it for hundreds of years. Sometimes it lands on the side of a cliff, accessible to no one except the most adept climbers who, usually, know nothing about it. Sometimes, like this time, it falls on a grass patch over looking a lake, where a slight breeze plays with the surrounding trees and a great, mound-like hillock sits across, greener than a spring day and waiting for something to be built upon it.

From the sun-drop grows, unusually fast, a single, golden, molten flower.

It sits lightly, reaching towards the sun in vain, seemingly insignificant in the green world around it which is all ready so bursting with life.

But this flower is different. This flower does not die. Not through a harsh winter or a fiery summer. Not when the rain pounds down and washes away the other plants nor when a drought causes them to shrivel in pain. No, this flower is whole and golden, as bright as the sun and just as eternal. And it sits eternally, waiting for someone to notice it.

A gasp of delight.

A withered hand reaching out in barely contained hope.

The flower is found.

The story begins.


	2. Chapter 1

**a/n:** Tangled view count: 3 times. :D

please read and review.

* * *

_Chapter One: Constrictor Knot_

_A knot that ties up a bundle of items._

She did not want to steal the child. No, the heavens above knew that she could not handle a child with the grace and selflessness needed to raise one, but in the end it was the child or nothing. She realized _that_ the moment she cut the hair of the little princess and it snapped back to a deep, chocolate brown, the power of the sun gone. When that had happened she had almost gone into one of her rages—her heart pounded furiously, and shortly afterwards her head began to ache. To top off the whole situation, she was aging rapidly, much too rapidly. She could feel the skin melting off her in folds, could see her vision dim and hear the noises of the world fade away from her ears. When she whispered the song of power her voice was hoarse, ugly, garish.

She really was in a bind.

For a single moment she let her cold, gray eyes sweep the nursery. No guards inside, door open to the parent's suite, another door leading out to the balcony. Really, it had been too easy to sneak past the watchmen. In fact, she had been doing quite a lot of sneaking lately; it was something she had always been good at—especially after hundreds of years practice. But she could not afford to dwell too much on the past, not at this moment. The baby gurgled again before her, swaddled peacefully in a crib of pale creams and golds. Anymore of that noise and the king and queen would awaken.

At the time it had been a hard choice for Gothel—after all, she did not want the responsibility of having to care for a child, and a royal one at that. A hiding place would have to be found, food gathered and cooked—not to mention she would have to teach her to read and possibly write, though for all intensive purposes that last measure wasn't too important…she sighed. Rubbing at her forehead with bending, snapping fingers, she started backwards. Her hands, gnarled like an ancient tree, met her declining eyesight and she cursed.

When it came down to it she cared more about her youth than the inconveniences of taking care of some stupid child.

She swept downward, gathering the small thing in her arms. The baby didn't fit there quite right, as if she wasn't the one meant to hold the princess, and the girl's blonde head, weighed down by an already absorbent amount of hair, lolled a little to one side. It was then that the baby realized that it was not her mother gripping her tightly in one hand, and she began to cry. Gothel almost dropped her.

The crying echoed around the empty chamber, and, wasting no more time, the aging woman moved towards the balcony doors, which opened onto the cool night air and a soft, gentle breeze wafting the lake below them. She could hear the movement behind her of the girl's parents and tried to quicken her steps.

It was difficult.

Her joints popped and cracked beneath her. Her skin withered and faded. Her thin lips dried up and she licked them, nervously, swinging open the balcony door and readjusting, rather roughly, the baby in her arms. With one last look back—back at the gold and opulence and love that this girl would never see—she was gone.

* * *

The baby cried too much, which Gothel didn't really understand at all. The stupid child had an immense bed and a large round room that Gothel had filled up with toys of every kind and paint and picture books and_ all_ of Gothel's attention. The tower was bright and warm during the day, dark yet peaceful at night—it was, in effect, the perfect home. But that didn't stop the damn crying. Every night and every day and all the time in between—the high-pitched wailing began grating on her nerves.

She had rid herself of the aching joints and things and often spent hours gazing at herself in the long looking glass she had positioned in the part of the room with the best light. But she still felt old, worn and weary, mostly because every minute, it seemed, she was trying to shut the baby up with a toy or a threat or a yell or a plead—none of it worked. Only at times like this did she wish for the flower's power as it had been: a flower. A nice, quiet flower.

For the first time in her life, everything was not about Gothel. And it frustrated her to no end.

* * *

Rapunzel. She decided to name the crying baby Rapunzel after the sun-drop flower. And, as soon as she was able to talk clearly, Gothel taught her the song of power. It was much more relaxing having the young girl sing, for then Gothel could brush and brush and brush the hair—already hanging past her waist—until its power faded into her and she felt rejuvenated and strong.

Then it was to the mirror. Always the mirror, checking for brownish age spots and growing wrinkles and other things. She had felt the pangs of being old many a time, but never had they been as advanced as the last time she let herself age, back when she had stolen the child. She could not afford to let that happen again. She had to keep the hair secret, and safe. She had to keep getting younger.

The little girl would constantly ask about going outside, mostly after she sang the song and her hair glowed a brilliant gold and Mother Gothel, as Rapunzel called her (she didn't necessarily like the name, it sounded so _old_), stood in front of the mirror for minutes, hours, days, years—a long time, at any rate. The very thought of losing the one thing that kept her forever, eternally young, after what she had went through to take it, sent Gothel's stomach careening into twisted knots and she would swallow back a dryness in her mouth that grew at the asking of the question.

The outside world was too dangerous. That is what she would hold onto and tell Rapunzel, her flower, because otherwise the girl would be too willing to try and sneak out herself.

It took four or five years of endless, sleepless nights filled with crying and endless, wrenching days, days that she could have spent out in the world fishing for compliments, for her to realize the most important difference between maintaining her youth in a flower and maintaining her youth in a girl.

One was easily manipulated. And if there was one thing Gothel excelled at, it was the art of manipulation.


	3. Chapter 2

**a/n:** Rapunzel in the movie tells Pascal not to be seen by Gothel. There has to be a reason for that, right?

please read and reviewww

* * *

_Chapter Two: Mooring Hitch_

_A quick release knot._

The bird flew in the window.

Until then the day had been going along as usual-well, almost as usual. She woke up Mother with breakfast in bed (her favorite, quail eggs and a strong smelling red drink that she wasn't allowed to touch) but had burnt the underside of the yolk. Usually she didn't do that—at least, she tried her hardest not to—so the fact that something so egregiously not _normal_ and _routine_ had happened should have been her first clue that the day was going to be different than most.

"Ah, my little flower, thank you so much," two pats on the head after dutifully delivering the tray. That was normal.

"You're welcome, Mother." If she could just make it to the main room then maybe—

"Rapunzel, dear."

She paused, one small root raised over the stone floor.

"Yes, Mother?" She bit her lip, slowly turning around. In her bed, more lush and gauzy then Rapunzel's own, with crimson red sheets and an overhanging tapestry depicting a single golden flower, with pillows piled and piled high around her, Gothel looked every inch a queen. Rapunzel cringed slightly at the disappointed look on her face.

"Darling, these eggs are just a little too brown on the bottom. Let's watch the frying pan more closely next time, yes?"

She was grateful when she skipped out into the main room, round and dark because the drapes had yet to be pushed back. She really hated disappointing Mother.

She raced over to the curtains and pushed them back—a window, crisscrossed with veins, let in the golden sunlight and she pushed her bare feet into the warm square it created. The window seat was warm too—she decided to pass the time until her mother finally got out of bed by reading.

Which was really what she always did, she just liked to think it would be more exciting if she pretended that reading after making breakfast was something out of the ordinary.

There were exactly two books currently sitting on her shelf. One was a book of botany, because her mother dearly loved flowers, and the other was a cookbook. She decided that, because she read the cookbook yesterday, that plants would be the better choice. The cover was worn and smooth underneath her small fingers, and as she hoisted it from its resting place she could feel the grooves where her fingers had done the same thing many times before.

For the first time that morning she took stock of her hair, which, despite being slept and stepped on, was smooth and soft. It was, as always, light as a feather, and newly warmed from where she had stepped in the sun. She had recently grown taller, so her hair, as she moved back to the window seat with her reading material, trailed only a few feet behind her.

Faintly, as she settled with her back against the glass and opened the book to a random page, adjusting her golden trail well out of the way behind her, she wondered if it would keep growing, forever and ever and ever.

She had just made it to the chapter nine of the book, Everyday Plants and Their Medical Uses, when Mother burst out of her room with a flourish, velveteen blue gown twirling around her feet. "Rapunzel!" she sang.

She flung down her book, hardly paying attention, as she normally did, to the pages that someone had torn out of the back (for as long as she could remember chapter ten had just not existed—in fact, for a long while she was convinced that the number ten in general did not exist, and that it went eight, nine, eleven, twelve, because there had been no chapter ten in this book). Her mother's arms enveloped her in a warm hug.

"My little flower," she cooed, "will you sing for me?"

This confused Rapunzel. She usually sang every third day, at night. She had just sung to Mother last night. So this—this was not normal.

"Are you feeling alright, Mother?" she was concerned. She bounced up and down a little but stopped as one perfectly sculpted black eyebrow was raised.

"Of course," she seemed perturbed at the question, "but mummy needs to take a little trip today."

Not normal. Definitely not normal.

"But it's not Market Day."

"Yes."

"Or my birthday."

"I know."

"Or anything else like that…" she progressively became softer.

"Rapunzel, honestly, what have I said about the mumbling?" Gothel snapped, swinging herself into the nearest chair and rubbing her forehead. "I forgot to tell you last night that I'd have to go today. Mummy needs a little time for…things."

"Alright."

"I shouldn't be gone past nightfall, if that's what you're worried about."

Rapunzel shook her head stubbornly, ignoring the butterflies that entered her stomach when she thought about spending the night alone in the tower—something she had never, ever, ever done.

"You are eleven, Rapunzel. You need to start to learn to become self-dependent. I can hardly be here twenty-four hours a day for seven days a week my entire life!" She exclaimed.

She hardly registered the comment. Instead she dragged out an old raggedy stool and set it down in front of her mother's plush chair, dutifully handing her a soft-bristled brush.

"Good girl," Gothel smiled, and petted her hair lovingly as Rapunzel began to sing.

She felt the tingling in the tips of her roots, a pleasant, warm sort of tingling. And still she sang, and sang. Today she was going rather slowly, in hopes of delaying her mother from the strange trip, but Gothel caught on to her plan rather quickly and snapped at her to hurry up.

"…what once was mine."

She didn't understand the song. Or the strange sensation that she felt. Or what Mother liked so much about it. ("One day, Rapunzel, one day you will understand…")

"Good girl. Mummy feels much better now." Gothel stood behind her, and went to the large mirror in the corner by the window, pruning at her face and checking her hands and arms. Rapunzel never knew what for, and was more confused than usual today by all the anti-normal that was occurring.

"Alright, my flower, I must go. I want you to clean the tower before I get back. And get started on your next writing lesson," She went over to the stone near the center of the round room and pulled it upwards, revealing a ladder and a dark passage below, "I must be off. I shall be back before nightfall—and perhaps with a gift."

With that Rapunzel watched her mother bundle up in a clock, grab an empty basket, and tumble off down the ladder, making sure to pull the stone back into place before she left. Rapunzel, shocked at the sudden departure, raced to the place where she had disappeared and bent her ear to the cold stone. She heard the loud noise as Mother moved the ladder away from the opening.

She only knew she did that because once she pulled the stone back herself (it had taken forever, but it had been Market Day, so Gothel was gone for an extremely long time buying food stores) and found the ladder missing and no way to follow her mother.

The quickness of the leaving made Rapunzel's stomach knot. She straightened and looked around the round room, spotless except for the botany book she left on the window seat. She walked over to it, no longer in a hurry.

It was splayed open on the blue upholstery, to the end of chapter nine and the beginning of chapter eleven. She took notice, for the millionth time, of the worn, jagged edges that marked the beginning of the missing pages in between the two chapters. But for the first time, in the growing sunlight, she could make out the faintest bit of writing that someone missed.

It was in the margin, a scrawling script with loops and things that made it very hard to read. Also, it looked as if someone had tried to get rid of it entirely and had failed. She tried to sound out the strange looking writing and could only make out two words.

"Sun flower." She frowned, scratching at the margins looking for more secret writing. She found none.

"Hmm." Shutting the book and placing it back on the shelf, she moved to open the only window that did unlatch and pushed it forward, allowing a little breeze inside the round tower room. Sticking her head as far out as she dared, listening for the slight gush of the waterfall and chirp of the birds, letting her golden hair out of the tower for one tantalizing second, she said, to the sky and grass and trees and water and generally no one in particular, "Well, I guess that'll be something to figure out so I won't get bored. The mystery of the missing chapter!"

With that she turned back inside. Grabbing a broom, she started to sweep—it was only just seven, too. It was turning out to be a long day.

* * *

It was somewhere between trying to climb the central supports to the tower's roof and trying to mop up the floor for the fifth time that the bird flew it. She heard it before she saw it, a flapping of wings and a musical note that echoed around the empty tower.

Startled at the noise, she swung around; the mop she was holding in her hand came up in what she imagined was a heroic, intimidating pose.

Though she thought it might be kind of hard to be intimidating when she had jumped behind one of the main support poles.

She peered around, mop still in her hand, and looked for the sound of the noise. She found the bird flapping feebly around on the ground, with one wing bent at an odd angle. In the light of the sun it was an odd mix of green and blue, feathers shining.

Her mother had told her about birds, but she had never seen one inside her tower before. They usually flew by the open window, not into it. It gave another feeble little flop on the multi-colored stone floor and Rapunzel dropped her mop and, slipping a little on the still-wet floor, hopped as close to it as she dared.

As she neared the bird it began a renewed attempt to try and take to the air once more, but it had been a miracle that it had made it into the window and to relative safety at all, and it couldn't get anyway. It chirped, scared, and flipped backwards a few feet.

"Shh," Rapunzel didn't dare get any closer. She shoved her hair behind her ears and bit her lip. Looking back at her two books sitting on the shelf, she found herself wishing for a manual on animal care. Finding none appearing, she carefully slid around the bird and towards the small kitchen area. Mother had just recently gone to get food on Market Day, so, when she opened the cabinets, she found various herbs and things and pots and pans and everything was full. She reached around in the back and found the yellow grain that Mother used to help teach her to cook. Pulling out the pink-glass jar, she heaved it up onto the counter and flipped open the lid.

Her hand sifted through the thin, small grain particles before she pulled up a moderate handful. Moving around carefully, so as not to spill, she headed back to the bird.

"Here you go," she was quite pleased with herself. She dumped the grain in a large pile on the floor, but the bird, still quite scared at the massive girl with an even greater mass of hair, hopped backwards again.

Rapunzel frowned. "No, see, you eat it. It's good." She picked up a few pieces and put them in her mouth. She tried not to grimace as she crunched loudly on the bland, hard pieces. The bird stopped its struggle and cocked its head to one side. It tried to fold up its wing but only one fit nicely against its side—the other continued to stick out. Rapunzel thought it might be broken.

"See? I'm not going to hurt you." Rapunzel hunkered down on her knees, skirt and hair flipping out around her. She reached towards the pile and carefully moved a few pieces of grain towards the bird. It hopped forward, and slowly, slowly, bent down to peck up the food.

Rapunzel clapped her hands and laughed, leaning back. The bird had finished up the grain and was hopping closer. She reached her hand out.

It paused once before deciding that she wasn't that big of a threat. "There you go." She lifted the bird up in her palm, standing and trying not to lose her balance. The creature was heavy. "I'm not so bad, right?"

_Chirpchirpchirp._

"Here, do you want to sit on my shoulder? I still have chores to do." Namely finish mopping the floor.

_Chirp._

"Yes, that's true, I don't know if you could balance with that wing." She pursed her lips. "Oh well! I was almost done anyway." Stepping over the grain she hopped to the open tower window. She set the bird carefully on the sill, where it seemed to look out longingly at the open sky and air, before pulling herself up beside it and letting her feet hang over the edge. She moved the bird to her lap.

"I've never had this happen to me before," she tried not to jostle the bird's wing, "because usually nothing finds the tower. You come from out there! What's it like? Have you seen the floating lights? They happen on my birthday. And, I mean, I know my birthday isn't for awhile but I like to think about them anyway. I wonder if they're stars…I want to map the stars once! Then I'll know."

_Chirppity chirp. Chirpchirp._

"So how did you hurt yourself? Don't worry about your wing—I would fix it, if I could, but mother will come back soon and I know she can fix you up. I guess I should give you a name!"

_Chirp._

"Hm. Plant."

_Chirrprpp._

"Yeah, you're right. Ok, something pretty. Something pretty. Gold? That's my hair color. But not yours. Sky? No. Pie? Ew. Grain? Eh."

The bird fixed her with a baleful gaze.

"How about Sun Flower? Ok, so you aren't sunny yellow or a flower, but I found it in my botany book."

The bird paused a moment, and, realizing that this was the best Rapunzel could come up with due to her currently limited lack of, well, _anything_, accepted the name and settled contentedly in her lap, broken wing and all.

She couldn't stop her smile as a light breeze played with her hair and the outside of her tower beckoned gold and green.

* * *

"I'm back, my little flower!"

"She's here!" Rapunzel had moved to her bedroom sometime after finding Sun Flower and was sitting on her bed reading the cookbook again before her mother came home. She heard the stone being placed back, then: "Rapunzel, come here."

"Stay there," she gently placed the bird on her bed. "Yes, Mother?" She grabbed the railing of the stair as she bounded into the main, round room. Her mother was staring down at the crumbs still lying where she had started feeding the bird.

Oh. She had forgot to clean that up.

The sun was setting, and it lit up Gothel from the back as she turned towards Rapunzel, setting her now full basket on the floor and placing her hands on her hips with a sigh. "Rapunzel, you had all day to clean this up! And what were you doing with grain on the floor?"

"Well, Mother, I had the window open and I was mopping up when—"

"Louder, Rapunzel, and speak more clearly."

"I was mopping up when a bird flew in."

"A bird?"

She raced back to her room and gathered up Sun Flower in both her hands, taking the steps more carefully. Her mother eyed the bird with an odd expression on her face. "Its wing is hurt. Could you fix it, Mother? Please? I named it Sun Flower, and it's the nicest bird ever—"

"Rapunzel, I hardly think having a pet will allow you to get the chores done more quickly. And Sun Flower?" Gothel frowned.

"Please, Mother, I will do my chores fast, I still will, but can you help Sun Flower?"

Gothel sighed, rubbing her temples. She hung up her cloak, moving around the mess on the floor and picking up her basket, placing it on the window seat. She lit a few candles and turned back to Rapunzel. "I will see what I can do, darling. In the meantime, I have a surprise for you!"

She pulled then two new books out of the basket, and it was all Rapunzel could do not to drop Sun Flower in her excitement. She placed them on the window seat and held her hands out for the bird. "I'll try to fix up your bird before dinner. I'm making hazelnut soup! Your favorite."

"See Sun Flower?" Rapunzel whispered, wanting to hug the bird but afraid to hurt its wing. "Mother will fix you right up."

Gothel took the creature and headed into her room, swinging the curtain divider shut behind her. Rapunzel moved towards the books, their titles just visible in the day's last light. _Geology_ and_ Mathematics: A Basic Guide_.

"Rapunzel!" Her mother called from her bedroom. "Why don't you go read your books in your room, yes?"

"Alright Mother!" she grabbed the new books. "Is Sun Flower ok?"

"Just fine, darling."

She headed upstairs, lit the candle by her bed, and began to read.

She did not hear the window open and close.

* * *

"Darling," she was halfway through _Mathematics_ when her mother entered her room, eyes downcast, and suddenly her stomach clenched.

"Yes, Mother?"

"I'm so sorry, darling, but Sun Flower didn't make it."

"Didn't make…what do you mean?"

"The bird is gone, my flower."

"He flew away?"

"…yes, yes of course. I'm so sorry."

Rapunzel didn't know why the tears spilled over and didn't know why she felt as if her mother was the cause of Sun Flower's disappearance. She didn't know why she felt the bird hadn't flown away, and didn't know why the small, broken body could be seen in her mind's eye at the bottom of the tower.

Entirely impossible. Every thought.

"This is why pets are bad, Rapunzel," Gothel sighed, sitting down next to her on the bed. Her arms were around Rapunzel and the girl could feel her petting her hair. "They cause messes and pain. That's all."

Sniff. Cry. Stop crying, it was fine. "Yes, Mother."

"Now, let's go make hazelnut soup."


	4. Chapter 3

**a/n:** please read and review.

* * *

_Chapter Three: Heaving Line Knot_

_Adds weight to the end of a rope._

He was hungry, but what else was new? He licked his dry lips as a family passed bearing cupcakes and loaves of bread and hunks of cheese; unconsciously he angled his body towards the smell that wafted past him, and he caught the nose of the mother turn upwards as he inched nearer. The family hurried off.

"What are you doing?" A hiss from beside him brought him back to reality and the painful twisting of his empty stomach. He hunkered back to his position, nonchalant, against one of the walls of the square, looking down idly at his boots—three sizes too big and already worn. He scratched his nose in irritation.

"We could have had that family," John muttered, not so much angry as annoyed, and Eugene rolled his eyes in aggravation, biting his tongue to keep a sharp remark from slipping out, like, _Hey, kid, remember yesterday when we almost got one of those royals to give us a gold piece before he caught you trying to pick pocket him? Yeah, good times._

It was midday. He'd been standing in this square for nearly three hours and the most that he and his partner-in-crime-sort-of had been able to scavenge had been a roll that some passerby dropped unsuspectingly. And they had had to share it, so that didn't really count at all.

"Eugene, I'm tired of this. Can we go back now?"

He thinks sickly of the kids sitting back in that orphanage ten streets down, rail-thin and dark-eyed, and most of all hungry, and knows today he has to hit the jackpot, something big, something like an entire loaf of bread or a _turkey_—that would be fantastic.

"You can. Send out Glen when you get home."

"Fine." He watched as John pushed himself forward, rather laboriously, and stumbled off down the road, families and merchants and shoppers splitting before him as if he smelled like rancid apples. Which he probably did, but that was hardly the point. Eugene eyed the market once more but saw nothing of importance. He waited impatiently for Glen, and only stopped taping his foot when he saw the small shock of brown enter his vision.

"Hullo," the boy side-stepped underneath the overhang, and Eugene had to stoop to look him in the eyes. Glen was one of the younger boys, with wide eyes and baby fat still hanging in folds off his cheeks. He attracted concerned citizens in hordes; even so, Eugene hated to have to use him. There was something about begging, actually begging and not trying to pawn off something from its owner with clever words or a well placed smile—_eyes bright, lift the lip slowly, smolder —_that rubbed him the wrong way. But food rations at the orphanage had been scarce lately, and the heads of state there, or whatever they were, weren't about to do anything about it.

After all, they were getting fed just fine.

"Hey, Glen," he sighed, "you ready?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. You know the drill."

Glen held out his hands obediently and began walking around the square saying things like, "Please sir, some change?" or "Money for those let fortunate," except fortunate came out foshunate with his clumsy tongue. However, he moved about like an expert, weaving in between shoppers to families who looked most likely to pay over a large sum.

Eugene rubbed his eyes, not for the first time that day, and blew a stray lock of brown from his forehead. After half-an-hour or so, during which he was supposed to be on the lookout for guards but was really just counting the number of holes in his tunic, he pushed up from his lean against the wall and headed to the street. Glen was currently making pouty eyes at a grandmother looking figure, who was reaching in her bag, and suddenly, inexplicably, Eugene _could not stand it_—

"I'm so sorry," best smolder, eyes bright, good, "but my little brother has a tendency for lie thank you for the money though" and blah blah blah, ignore the confused look on grandma's face and the even more confused look on his young partner in crime's . Too much, too much right now. He took the few coins—three silver pieces and two coppers—from Glen's outstretched hands and pocketed them deftly.

"Good work, bud, are you ready for lunch?"

"Awright, but why'd you stop me from getting money from that lady, Eugene? Huh? She probably had a lot—"

Money. Money. Stupid money, always the damn money. It was as if the world was made of it, as if people were ruled by it. He hated it.

He said nothing, because the coins felt simultaneously like lead and freedom in his pockets and he could not quite work out his thoughts at the moment. Not for the first time, with such money in his possession, he thought of leaving. Of running away and not being the oldest or the leader or the one everyone looked up to but simply Eugene. Living for himself. No poverty. No orphanage. No worries—

He caught Glen in his peripheral vision and all plans stopped. He couldn't let this kid down. Hell, he would have no problem letting John down, or Michael, but Glen? No way. Nathan? Bryon? He couldn't picture it. So, sighing, he suppressed his unspoken dream and motioned to the corner bakery. He wasn't going to get a whole turkey with this kind of money, but three loaves of bread and two rolls for himself and Glen were doable. As he took a step towards it, he saw the guards.

Eugene had been hanging around the market long enough for most guards to know his face. It was his good looks, mostly, but also the fact that they sometimes stole, most of the time loitered, and a little of the time begged. They were menaces, but, Eugene thought gladly, smugly, they hadn't been caught yet.

"Hey, Glen," he stepped closer to the boy and pointed towards the contingent of red and gold, "we have to book it, come back to the bakery later."

"Awright." Glen kept his head smartly down and, dragging him by the shoulder, Eugene shot towards the nearest side street, thankful for the crowds to hide their escape and sticking close to the shaded sidewalk.

"That was close—" he grinned down and missed the door to the shady bar open and close, missed entirely the guard, tipsy from lunch but not so drunk he was impaired, until it was too late and he had run into him.

"—oh." He grimaced, stumbled backwards, into Glen, and the two went sprawling into the alley way. "Well, there."

"Watch out, boys—" the guard blinked. "It's you!"

Smolder incapable of working at this time.

"Run, run, run," he pushed Glen backwards, to his feet, and together they ran into the square where the lunch crowd was just leaving. From behind him he could hear: "It's those pick pockets! The thieves! Get them!"

Crap. One pick pocket job too many. Or rather, one botched pick pocket job too many.

"Which way?"

"Uh." He couldn't afford to pause and swung left without thinking, the younger boy hot on his heels, onto a narrow, winding street he had, so far in his life, avoided. It had its fair share of visitors who stared in disdain as they raced pass, feet pounding out a staccato rhythm on the sidewalk. There was a rumble he felt more than heard and he knew the guards were still behind him. He cut down an alley and into the next main thoroughfare—the palace was just visible over the tops of buildings, bulbous and grand and ornate and at that moment in time he hated the people who lived there. Just a little.

"Eugene!" Glen's sweaty hand pulled his own towards a small, unassuming shop, right by the alley's entrance, and, sensing brilliance and hoping for something-he-doesn't-know-what, Eugene followed the boy inside. Together the two hid beneath the window, panting heavily, as a group of armored guards clanked pass.

"Here," Eugene scooted closer to one of the shelves lining whatever store they were in and tried to make himself as small as possible. The door opened, and he clearly saw the back of a guard.

"Have you seen any boy run in here? Two of them? " The man asked and Eugene heard a voice respond, "Not that I am aware of, no. Is it always your practice to barge in as such to people's shops? It's bad for business, you know."

The guard huffed something about a royal decree and, luckily, unbelievably, left without turning around. Eugene let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and said, "Good thinking, Glen."

"Thanks." The younger boy drew out his 's' a little, and Eugene shook his head with a smile. He looked around and noticed they had run into a book shop. He unfolded himself from his hiding place, suddenly intrigued. He knew how to read a little—more than the others, at any rate. The books lined the shelves and the shelves lined the room and all he could see was books and one little, frail, wisp of a man with failing white hair. He was eyeing them with blue eyes beneath spectacles, and when he spoke it was the voice of the man who had sent the guard off. Eugene wondered if he should thank him.

"Hello." He adjusted his glasses. "Abnormal entrance, there, boys."

Eugene got to his feet slowly, a sudden anger welling up inside him. He hated this. Well, technically he hated the orphanage for wasting money on stupid things for the stupid adults of the place and not spending it on food, where it was needed. He hated them for not noticing the children wasting away underneath their gaze. He hated the king and queen for not helping. He hated royalty for being rich. He hated. He hated.

He hated a lot, didn't he?

"Can I assume that you boys are here for a book? Or were you really just trying to elude those guards?"

"Elude?" Glen asked.

"Escape." Eugene replied curtly. "And of course we're here for a book. Right, Glen?"

"No, we were escaping."

Eugene mumbled and headed up the first aisle of books, not waiting to see if the younger boy would follow. Instead he meandered passed titles that had no meaning for him, for they were part of a different world to which he did not belong. He came out of the first aisle and headed up the second, running an already-calloused hand against spines velvet-soft with age whose titles couldn't even be read. He noticed Glen had picked up a thin looking volume of some sort, and as he got closer he realized the backing was a forest green and on the front it had in large letters, _THE ADVENTURES OF FLYNNIGAN RYDER_ with a faded, crudely drawn illustration of a man holding a sword. Eugene frowned.

"What's it say?" Glen asked quietly, enthralled by the picture.

"_The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder_."

"Can we get it? Please Eugene? Can we?"

"We have to buy food…" the prospect of owning something, anything, was extremely tempting indeed. He tried to head up the aisle but the boy hooked on to his arm and was waving the book around in his face and would not, for anything, let go.

"Please? Please? Please? You can tell use stories! We never hear good stories!"

"Alright, alright," Eugene said, smiling and taking the book from Glen's grip. He headed back to the front of the book seller's and asked, putting on his best face, "How much for this one?"

"Ah, _The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder_, first edition. Rather old. An antique, I would say."

Oh.

"May I ask, young master, how much you are willing to part for it?"

The money was burning a hole in his pocket. Silently he extracted two of the three silver pieces, and the copper piece.

"Ah." The old seller examined each coin carefully, then peered at Eugene, then at Glen, and then at the book. Finally: "Well, I am truly sorry, but it seems that I cannot accept your payment."

"The coins are good though!" Eugene was indignant. Like they would even dream of bringing counterfeit.

"Yes, I know. But I can't take them." The old man shook his head. "Not with a good conscious, anyway. You seem desperately in need of something more useful than a novel, to which that money can be put to good use. However, I can let you borrow the book."

Not own. Borrow. Never own. Why should he own anything?

"Borrow?" Glen asked, standing up straighter to get a better look of the counter.

"There's nothing in it for you." Eugene pointed out logically. "Letting me borrow this book. It doesn't make any sense."

"Borrow or don't borrow. Take it or leave it."

"Conditions?" He couldn't believe this. At all.

"Oh, I expect it to be returned someday. It was my favorite book, after all. And perhaps coming down for some chores would not be too bad, either." The old man wiped his glasses on his shirt sleeves and eyed the boys, looking wide-eyed back at him, with something very, very close to a grin.

As Eugene left the shop he felt heavy, strangely so, mostly because he had agreed to a job at the book store next week but also because something weighed down his hand and the money still burned a hole in his pocket; he continued down towards the bakery, Glen bounding in excitement behind him, and, swinging from his fingers in a slow, hypnotic sort of fashion, was _The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder._


	5. Chapter 4

**a/n:** Pascal! except i don't think i did him justice. eh.

please read and review :)

* * *

_Chapter Four: Sheet Bend_

_Joins ropes of unequal size._

She was surrounded by a rainbow of color—blues, pinks, purples, greens, tans, yellows—all contained neatly, nicely, in little round mugs that had been one of her first creations after Mother had managed to bring her a pottery wheel. Some were cracked up the side, and the plain, brown surface on most all of them was covered in spatters and drips of paint. She carefully pushed her hair into a neat little pile and bent down to dip her brush into the nearest color. It came out periwinkle, light and lovely. She bent forward, towards the small space of wall she was attempting to cover, and ran it heavily along the side, leaving a trail of purple in her wake.

Mother was gone for the afternoon, as per usual. She'd be back before the sun set, as per usual also, which meant that Rapunzel had all the time in the world to finish her current masterpiece.

Which was good, because aside from the heavy purple line she had drawn nothing. Because she had no idea what to draw.

She bit her lip and, picking up her hair, stepped out of the circle of paint, throwing her brush in one of jugs haphazardly and wincing as she realized it had landed in the light yellow without her wiping off the periwinkle. The colors bled a little, creating another tan that she didn't need. She sighed, one strand of hair looping in front of her eyes. She threw the rest of the mass down in frustration, not even paying much attention to the length (nearly ten feet of it, on the ground) as she walked quickly up to her room. Rummaging through the pillows mounted on her bed, she pulled out her reading material of last night—the botany book, _again_—and flipped through the first few pages.

"No, no, no," she muttered under her breath, as she passed picture after picture of incredibly detailed flowers. She'd drawn them all, or some caricature of them at least—she could see one now, lying serenely next to her bed, and the star flowers the book talked about were there, right over her head, and she knew a dozen more were covering her armoire and mirror and stool downstairs. She gave a groan of annoyance and tossed the book back into the mass of pillows. She'd have to re-make her bed again before Mother got home, now.

The botany book was out for ideas. That left the geology book (rocks, in her gallery? no thank you), the cook book (hm, pies would be kinda go—no, what was she thinking?), or the math book (N.O.). Which really left no books at all to use, because that was the current extent of her library.

She scooped up the botany book and ran back into the main round room to place it in its proper spot on the book shelf next to the others, and then raced back upstairs to tidy up her bed. She'd have to use animals, then, her fall back. "But that's the trouble," she mumbled to herself as she sat another pillow up right and straightened out the blanket, "I've only ever seen birds. Birds, birds, birds." She peered sideways at the bird family sitting above her bed. She liked birds, she really did, but she didn't like them _quite_ so much after Sun Flower had flown away.

She kicked at the floor with her small bare feet as she headed back downstairs. The paint circle was mocking her. She could tell from across the room.

Aside from the fact that she was currently suffering an extreme case of artist's block, it was also raining. Not a hard rain, just a light splatter, enough to be annoying and damp but not enough to flood. (She couldn't imagine why on earth Mother was out in it.) Mother had told her to shut the window and put on slippers, and she hadn't really followed suit on both accounts. She had left the window open just a crack, so she could hear the rain tap-pattering along the valley floor. Which is how he got in.

She sidled passed the paint, avoiding eye-contact with the monsters, and headed to the kitchen for an afternoon snack. That morning she had made cookies, chocolate chip and delicious, mostly because Mother had requested them but secretly because she had been craving them. Her mouth watering at the thought, she reached towards the tray she had left on the small counter.

And her hand hit something smooth. And slightly cool. And scaly.

She screamed, and it echoed around the empty tower room, before jumping back a few feet, just barely avoiding the outermost paints in her circle. She tipped awkwardly to one side, trying to save her hair from an early blue-green-pink death and trying to save her battered pottery from even more abuse. She ended up hopping over the circle and tumbling to a stop near the open window, her eyes still fixed on the cookie tray.

Something green was eyeing her from on it. Something green and small and unnatural.

"Ok-it's-ok-it's-fine—" she panted, scrambling to her feet and diving for the nearest hidey-hole she could, which became a mix of the end of the kitchen counter and her hair. She tucked up in a ball underneath it and began throwing pots and pans out of the shelves she was staring at, looking for a suitable weapon and _a-ha_!

"Right, on the count of three." The handle was slippery in her grasp and her heart fluttered against her chest. She didn't really get a good look at the thing, but it had skinny legs. Maybe a spider? Well, that was no big deal, she'd killed plenty of those before.

Though, never one this big. Or boney. Maybe it was an alligator! She bit her lip, for the millionth time that morning, remembering the story about the man who was eaten whole her mother had told her about. Eaten up by an alligator.

"One."

Crocodile? Wasn't that a distant cousin of the alligator?

"Two."

She had it. It was a bear. Mother said they were fearsome. Oh! A snake! That made much more sense, but why did it have legs? Frog, then?

"Three!"

She sprang out from behind the kitchen counter but slipped a little on her hair. Her head came crashing into the wooden corner of the cabinet and blackness dotted her vision. "Ow." She moaned from the floor. She lay there for a second, proposed weapon useless in her hand, and frowned. This was, so far, not going according to plan.

Something nudged her elbow and, screaming again, she pushed herself to her feet, swung up and around, and threw the frying pan she was holding in the direction of the nudge. It hit the floor with a loud clatter, metallic and gleaming, before bouncing, with a few more clangs, to a slow stop. Breathing hard, she peeled open her eyes to survey the damage.

The green beast was giving her a deadpan sort of look.

She backed up into the window frame, sinking to the floor. "What. Are. You?" she panted. "A monster? Thug? Alligator? Are you here to take me outside? Well, it's never going to happen! Oh no. You're here to eat me, aren't you? I don't taste good. You can have my cookies instead—"

She let her eyes slip to the tray on the counter top and she found, sitting there, nothing but empty air.

"—which you already did."

The green thing shrugged, hunkering back on its hind-legs. The whole picture was so outlandish. And adorable. She smiled. "Aw, you are kinda cute. And small. You wouldn't eat me."

He shook his green head and stepped forward. She held out her hand and faintly remembered a bird but pushed the thought out of her mind as he pattered quickly up her arm. She gasped, because it tickled and because it was cold and also because it felt a little strange, and shot to her feet. The green thing settled itself onto her shoulder and burped.

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed my cookies."

_Chirpsqueaksqueak._

"Of course I made them. But I can't make anymore right now, I want to paint. I just…don't know what to paint."

She picked up the frying pan, examining it for cracks or breaks, and, pleased to see the cast iron in perfect condition, placed it on the counter. All the while the little green thing clung to her shoulder in a companionable sort of way. She smiled. Inspiration struck.

"I'll paint you!"

She grabbed up her hair and jumped into the circle of paint, ignoring the squeaks of protest coming from her shoulder. Dumping the pile of gold in her arms she reached one hand up towards the little creature and the other towards her paintbrush; wiping off the now ugly brown color on a rag, she set the green thing right next to the spot where she was going to decorate.

"Don't move, ok?" She reached the brush into the green paint.

When she looked back up he was gone. "Hey!" She frowned, eyeing the spot where she had left him. If she looked very, very closely she could just make out—

Pink. He had turned a bright pink to match the flower he was standing in front of.

"You can change color." She stated, torn between being awestruck and afraid. He chuckled dryly and turned back to his original, leaf green state. She blew up a loose strand of hair and said, "Ok, I'm going to try this again. Just stay green, ok?"

She moved to put her paint brush back against the wall but he had suddenly changed to a pale periwinkle. Wiping off her brush, muttering under her breath, she quickly reached for the light purple mug but not quickly enough for him—he changed from purple to blue to red in quick succession, each time just after she had dipped her paintbrush into the pot.

"Two can play at that game," she reached for the rag and dipped out a drop of blue and green onto a clean spot on the grimy surface, swirling it around until it was a nice, aqua sort of color. "Ha!" she held up her creation next to the little lizard, who, within seconds, had turned a nice aqua sort of color as well.

She mixed blue with purple, periwinkle with red, orange with yellow; she was looking at colors she hadn't even known existed, colors too bright or too garish to even consider putting up on her walls yet still, still he matched every single one until finally, in a flurry of movement, she tipped a little too far forward and brought the paint brush, full of some variant of cerulean, crashing onto the blank surface of the wall she was working on.

Right above the strip of purple, a blue dot.

She ended up painting a flower.

"You can match any color, huh?" she huffed, sitting back on her hands and surveying her work which was, understandably, not the best.

_Squeaksqueak._

"Me? I can't change colors. I can't even go outside. Think of all the colors I'm missing."

_Chirp_.

"Well, Mother doesn't want me too. She says it's too dangerous. I like it fine in here, anyway. Just…it just gets a little…quiet, is all."

_Squeaksqueak_.

"Do I make cookies a lot? What kind of question is that?"

_Chirp_.

"Yes, I do. Mother likes them."

_Squeakchirpsqueak._

Rapunzel sat up quickly, hitting a few mugs and sending their contents spilling over the hem of her dress and her hair and her hands. "Really?" her heart pounded, but not, as it had earlier that day, out of fear but excitement. The little green creature sat still, back to leafy green, and nodded resolutely.

She sprang to her feet, ignoring the color circle completely now, and bent down to put the little thing on her shoulder again, but not before she gave it a bone-breaking hug. "Thank you so much! Thank you! We'll have so much fun! And I'll make cookies! A lot of them! Just," suddenly her stomach hurt and she didn't feel so excited at the prospect of a friend. Sun Flower flashed briefly across her mind. She continued after a pause, "Just don't let Mother see you, ok Pascal?"

_Squeakchirpchirp_.

"What's a Pascal? You are, silly! Isn't it a great name?"

_…chirp._

"You'll love it, trust me. I read it in my math book, it's the name of a man who came up with some triangle…but you just seem like a Pascal to me—" suddenly she could hear echoes up through the ground from the passage below and the sing-song voice she knew so well was saying, "I'm home, my flower."

She gasped, racing to the window and peaking through the crack. The sun was setting. She'd completely lost track of time.

"Quick," her paint-splattered feet slipped on the smooth stone as she ran to her room and dropped the little green thing—Pascal, as she dropped Pascal into her pillows, "don't let her see you, just hide. I'll be back with dinner."

She made it to the bottom of the stairs just as her mother was coming up the ladder and pushing the stone in the floor all the way to one side. She caught the tail end of what she was saying.

"…had the longest day, Mummy cannot wait for you to sing to her to…" Gothel stuck her head up, clamoring into the room, basket in hand, as usual, and her sentence trailed off. Only then did Rapunzel consider what it all must look like.

A rainbow of colors. One giant rainbow in her hair, on her feet, on the floor, on her hands, on her face—none of the mess matching the single, purple and blue flower she painted.

"Rapunzel? What's this?" her mother's voice was quiet, a little menacing, but she couldn't quite seem to care.

"Mother, have you ever heard of an animal changing colors?"


	6. Chapter 5

**a/n:** hello all, this one is looong. and eh. but i want to say thank you to all my reviewers-you guys make my day :)

* * *

_Chapter Five: Running Bowline_

_A slip knot._

Sometimes he feels like running, so he does—little steps at first, tentative, not so much a run as a quicker pace than his normal walking—and then he picks up speed, and ahead of him, through the mob of people lining the square for Market Day, he can see a path, outlined in yellow and paved in gold, and he knows exactly which way to turn and dodge, under arms and over obstacles as he accelerates—now he is jogging, boots hitting the ground in a sharp staccato rhythm, two sizes too big, hard leather smacking skinny legs, and behind him the others are just beginning to feel the inklings of strangeness, that something is incredibly wrong here, or going to be—and then he is flying, up the street and away, away from it all, pushing his arms and his legs until he cannot push them anymore, ignoring the feeling of the whole world watching as he slips easily between passerby like water over rocks—there is a breeze in his hair, and his heart beats loudly in his ears, and he feels gloriously, wondrously alive, but only for one brief moment because then, just when he has established a pattern that he can keep up for awhile, he feels the pound of his satchel (newly acquired, from the rubbish heap he found outside the tailor's) against his side and it's not heavy, but weighty, and he can feel it, one thing, one dog-eared, yellow-paged volume, the only thing in his sack right now—and then, inexplicably, he looks back.

Glen is pushing through the crowd, eyes wide, some unwritten emotion on his face, and behind him the twins, Nathan and Bryon, are shouting his name, only he can't hear them through the noise of the crowd. It's one big pantomime, and for one brief moment he's trying to sort out everything in his head, only he gets interrupted as he pile-drives into something large and firm. He is stopped mid-run, tumbling backwards, losing his balance, by a palace guard, broad-chested and maybe a couple of years older than him. The guard has a nice, walrus-like beard already growing in, and, even though he is on the cobbled street, torn between utter embarrassment and utter pain, Eugene can't help but rub the non-existent scrub that he hopes to attain one day.

"Watch it, boy," the guard barks, and Eugene has to bite back a sharp remark as he hauls himself to his feet, gives a devil-may-care grin, and stumbles off into the shadows casted by the nearest overhang. His stomach rumbles and he groans as he realizes he is now standing in front of the bakery, which is, all together, a bad idea.

He's taking count of his limbs—tired, heavy, like lead, after the sudden burst of speed—and his breathing—ragged, jagged, and painful—when Glen comes puffing up, hair in a wild brown mess around his big, baby eyes. "What's wrong, Eugene, are you awright? Were there some guards chasing after you?"

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

"Why'd you run off like that?" The twins have caught up, and they aren't so naïve as Glen. Nathan, impeccably dressed as he can be, adjusts his dirty over-coat in an attempt to ease out his run-torn appearance, and sets a searing gaze at Eugene as he shrugs back against the bakery wall. His brother, Bryon, cutting a far less dashing figure with his long-ish, lanky hair and casual attire, continues, "Seriously. I hate running."

He likes the twins, he really does—he'd say they were his best friends, actually, if he believed in that sort of thing—except they can see right through him, like he's the glass and they're the people standing outside of it, looking into a shop or home or heart. Part of him knows they want the truth. Part of him knows they want him to look them in the face and say, "I was running away from you, and this life, because I'm tired of being poor and I'm tired of being looked up to." But he doesn't. Instead he says:

"Glen, you remember that old lady you almost got money from a couple of months ago?" He's reaching, and Nathan can tell, and Bryon can tell, but Glen can't, he's too young. He tilts his head to one side, chest still puffing up and down, and even though he's so small Eugene can, in that one moment, see him grown. _He'll be the burly, body-guard type_, he thinks absentmindedly as Glen finally answers. "Yeah, I think so. Only you wouldn't let me…oh yeah! That was the day we found the book!"

"Yep. I thought I saw her, so I thought I'd run after her, maybe try to get us some money or food or something. I didn't want to lose her."

Bryon snorts. Eugene shoots him a look that could freeze water. Glen misses it all.

"Well, did you catch her?"

"Of course he didn't." Nathan's voice is oddly edgy. "What a stupid idea."

"Oh."

The book. Eugene shouldn't have brought up the book because thinking about really just makes him want to run again.

He was perfectly fine until he read the book. Until he started thinking that a life like Flynnigan Ryder's would be a whole hell of a lot better than the life of Eugene Fitzherbert.

And Flynnigan Ryder never did have to look out for anyone but himself.

The smells of the bakery are making everyone tense and the tension is growing thicker in the air. Eugene thinks he should start walking, back the way he came, towards their original destination—which happened to be the small food stall a few streets over that regularly gave out scraps—but he doesn't have the energy to at the moment. Instead he eyes his satchel, placed around his shoulder, hanging at his hip. He fingers the leather strap and suddenly everything breaks.

The leather bag falls to the floor, opening and spilling out the one thing inside. He's holding the other end of the leather strap, the one not attached to the bag anymore. He groans. So that was why it was in the rubbish heap.

Bryon starts laughing and suddenly he is too, and so is Nathan, and Glen is laughing because the tension is gone and, even though he is small, he could most definitely sense that, and when, finally, the moment has passed and Eugene has scooped up his satchel in his arms like some grotesque, misshapen baby Bryon chokes out, "Claire can fix your man-bag for you."

"Satchel."

"Whatever." Bryon smiles, and for a moment everything is normal again, and Eugene does not have any wishes or dreams except to stay in the capital and take care of the only family he's got.

"Let's go get lunch, huh?" Eugene says softly after a moment's pause. "Then we can head back home."

* * *

"Can you fix it?" Eugene bats his eyes. "Please?"

"Ugh, men," Claire throws her hands in the air before shoving one angrily through her sharp, mousy brown hair. "You cannot do anything yourselves, and you break everything you touch."

"I—that is absurd, I did not break this!"

"His poor man bag!" Nathan cackles as he and Bryon enter the orphanage, towing a rather sick looking Glen behind them. The boy had one too many cupcakes at the food cart, mostly because he kept batting his eyes at the daughter of the vendor running the thing who then kept feeling bad and giving him more. He stumbles to a stop in front of Claire.

"I don't feel so good," he mumbles.

The straw that broke the camel's back.

"WHAT DID YOU FEED MY LITTLE BROTHER EUGENE FITZHERBERT?"

"…cup…cakes?" he purses his lips and curses the twins for leaving him. John and Michael, sensing a brawl, come in from the adjacent room and squat down, eager for a show and some entertainment. Eugene blanches.

"John, can you take Glen to the sleeping pallets? He needs to lie down."

"But—"

"Now."

Eugene may be leader but even he is cowed by Claire. She watches as John forlornly drags a green-looking boy out towards the one bedroom, motioning for Michael to follow him. "Shut the door."

For a moment as the boys leaves Eugene lets his eyes wander. They are in the entry hall, a square little room with peeling, fading wallpaper and jagged floors that pop and squeak under foot. To the left is a small kitchen, where there is never any food, and to the right the sleeping quarters, which is just really a long room with seven or eight thin pallets laid out nicely and neatly in a row. There is a set of stairs, which leads to the caretaker's quarters. _Mr. Wells means well_, Eugene thinks as his eyes wind up the staircase to the dark of above, where the kids rarely venture, _but he would be doing a lot better if the government gave us more money to use._

Money. Money, money, money, again. If only he was like Flynnigan Ryder. If only he could buy his way out of everything.

Claire rubs her eyes when everyone is gone and sighs once all the doors are closed and they are alone. She's a few months younger than him, with the temper of an ox. Hell hath no fury and all that. Her short hair gleams dully in the light that's shining through the one pallid glass window, and her grimy face frowns at him. He stands there, awkwardly holding his satchel in both hands, even though he can do it in one. The book peaks out.

"How'd you break it?" she asks at last.

"I was running."

"Why were you running?"

"I'd rather not say."

He can't lie to Claire. She'd catch on even more quickly than Nathan and Bryon. In fact, he's certain that she knows the answer anyway as she reaches for his bag and heads to the kitchen, where their meager supplies are stored in the cupboards instead of food.

"You owe me a dress." Is all she says as the door swings shut behind her.

* * *

He sleeps through the night but feels bone tired the next morning as he peels back his eyelids. His gaze meets the dark wood of the ceiling above, and he can hear the quiet, measured breathing of eight or so kids next to him. He lays there for a moment, thinking about everything and nothing, before swinging himself into an upright position rather quickly. He rubs his eyes as he feels next to his pallet for his boots. Slipping them on, he grabs his shirt and then stands. His boots make clicking sounds on the floor, nothing too loud, but hopefully a few of the kids will wake up. He needs help today—they need food. Lots of food.

He cannot get the picture of Claire's skinny arms as she grabs his satchel from him out of his head.

The room is in complete darkness, except for the small crack of light escaping out from under the door. He trips over something at the foot of his pallet that he does not see, and his hand meets smooth leather. He grabs up his satchel and pushes his way to the entry hall, shutting the door behind him.

The morning light is streaming through the entry, and Eugene catches Mr. Wells's retreating form as he heads back up into his room. Mrs. Wells would have made him wake everyone up. But Mrs. Wells is gone, and she took Mr. Wells with her, and left Eugene with eight kids.

Entirely unfair, the whole situation, really.

The sunlight makes the room look falsely happy, and for a moment he feels lighter as he glances down at his bag. Claire stitched up the handle with thick, coarse, white thread, and also added a dark patch which she stitched on haphazardly in the corner. He smiles. She must have thought that would have been the next likely place to break.

He knows that if he doesn't wait for the others to get up he will not get anything accomplished today, but he opens the front door anyway and steps out into the smelly streets of the slums, eyeing the castle in the distance and thinking about a path lined in yellow and draped in gold.

* * *

They are all hungry, huddled around the little fire in the stove they can manage in the kitchen. He has pulled in some firewood he found around the house and, overall, he thinks he did a good job. The fire pops and crackles merrily. Glen's stomach growls, cupcakes of yesterday forgotten.

They had no food today.

Eugene hunkers down on his knees, arms brushing with Claire who leans her head placidly against his shoulder. Nathan and Bryon are trying to keep their mind off of the hunger by playing a game of cards, only, the orphanage owns no card decks, so they are playing _Prisoner's Dilemma_ with nothing but their imagination.

"One…two…three!" Nathan shouts. "Even!"

"Odd!"

"I win!"

"Liar!"

John is looking uncomfortably angry, as always. And he smells. Eugene can hardly hold that against him, though. Michael squats next to him, the perfect side-kick. Eugene wants to role his eyes at the whole scene, but one look at the group huddle around the fire and the few loaners hanging in the shadows stops him. Also, he is distracted by Glen, who, tired, hungry, is trying to ignore the nag in his stomach, and is asking, "Eugene, can you read us the book?"

He mostly reads it for Glen, who is the youngest, but also because he likes it, and he thinks the others like it too. From his shoulder Claire mumbles tiredly, "Yes, please."

"Alright, then," he gets up and rummages for his bag, finds it, and pulls out the book. Settling back down, he opens to a dog-eared page, where they last left off, and starts to read. His voice isn't magnificent. It isn't deep or light or airy, it isn't velvety smooth, though he can make it so at times—though is voice is only just there it weaves magic as he begins.

" '_Chapter Eight: The Crown._

_After Flynnigan returned home safely from his encounter with the thugs he found himself staring wistfully into the distance, but for what he did not know. His life took on a boring, monotonous routine that he grew to despise, for he did not think himself fit or adequate for the duties of running a castle. Everyday his butler would come in and ask him questions concerning finance, and he would answer. Everyday his chef would ask him what he wanted to eat, and he would respond. Everyday he would sit at his desk in his library and look intently on the horizon from which he had just so recently returned._

_It did not take long for Flynnigan to realize that adventure, which he had so carelessly tasted in the past three months, had poisoned his body and soul, and nothing would placate his need, desire, and want except more of the very poison. So it was that he was fervently wishing for a challenge when one came. _

_It happened on the second month after his return home, when, in the dead of night, he was awoken by an awful screeching sound coming from the treasury. He sprang to his feet, faster than his fastest guards, and raced towards the noise. Flinging open the heavy doors to his gold-room, he found, inside, the most appalling sight. _

_A small hole had been cut in the roof, through which a man was being lowered down on a rope, directly over Flynnigan's most prized possession, a crown of enormous wealth which he had gathered in the land of the Moon on his adventure to find the fabled healing flower there. He sprang into action, whipping up a sword from where it lay glittering in a pile of gold near his feet, and raced towards the thief. The man, thinking Flynnigan a terrible, awful apparition come to bring him down to hell for his deeds, screamed, fumbled with the crown, and dropped it onto the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces. _

_Furious at the loss of one of his finest treasures, Flynnigan sprang towards the man just as, frantically, the thief was pulled up through the hole in the roof and out of sight. Incensed that anyone would dare steal from him, Flynnigan hung the sword he was carrying around his waist and stormed out of the treasury. (The sword was later to be known as Hollow-Point, for all the dastardly, hollowed out men which it's sharp point struck)._

_He had no time to berate his guards for not attending to the thief sooner because, for the first time in several months, he was not itching for adventure—the poison had found him at last. Wasting no more time, he readied his steed, mounted, and pounded out of the courtyard towards the thief.'"_

* * *

When he hears the news he is chatting Claire up in the entry hall, fingering his satchel absentmindedly. Glen races in, panic on his face, eyes wide, and Eugene's stomach drops.

"What's wrong?" Claire and Eugene say immediately, almost in unison. Glen can barely speak through the tears that are springing to his eyes, and Claire grabs her brother gently by the shoulders. "Calm down, Glen, really."

He takes a few great heaving breaths.

"Now, tell us what's the matter."

"J-John s-s-aid he was ti-tired of being hungry, and f-fed up with Eugene n-not trying and so he w-went to the banker's p-place and he s-s-stole some money and now the guards are after him!" Glen ends in a high cry and Eugene can't help it, he says:

"That damn little bastard."

Claire hugs her brother, looking over the thin shoulder to meet his eyes. "What are you going to do?" she asks, and in that moment something twists painfully in his stomach.

"Go save him, I guess. Glen, where are Nathan and Bryon?"

"O-out l-l-looking for him."

"Ok. Hey, bud, I want you to keep this safe for me, alright?" He hunkers down on his knees and pulls _The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder_ from the satchel's depths, hands it gingerly over to the shaking boy who takes his head for one moment out of Claire's shoulder and peers at the offering.

"M-me?"

"Yep. I want to act out the next part. I'll play the thief, and you can be Ryder, but that means you have to learn the parts."

His saddest lie ever, yet Glen doesn't seem to notice. Claire does, and she narrows her eyes.

"Eugene Fitzherbert, you are to stay right here." She tries to keep the bossy aspect, the control that is normally there in her voice, but it sort of shakes and gives out. She watches Glen take the book reverently, tears momentarily dammed by the fantastic gift that has been given him. "John has been a nuisance since he first came here, and that's that, he'll get what's coming to him—"

"But if Nathan and Bryon find him before the guards do, and then the guards catch them with him—well, you know." He shrugs. "One big mess. And lots of jail time. That's not good."

Claire stands. "Eugene, just stay."

"Sorry, Claire," and part of him really means it, really does, "this is for you." He bends in and kisses her lightly on the cheek. She's blushing a bright red as he flashes his signature grin at her, walking out of the orphanage and into the light of the street.

He doesn't say goodbye because part of him wishes that it wasn't.

* * *

There are guards swarming the market, especially around the banker's place where a window has been shattered near the deposit boxes and gold coins are glinting on the floor, itching to be picked up.

_Huh_, Eugene eyes the mess, _guess I underestimated that kid's guts. Messy job, though_.

He slips into the crowd, looking for two familiar faces, but he doesn't see anyone. For a moment he starts to panic, because if Nathan and Bryon get caught up in this he'll never forgive himself, but then he tries to calm down.

Tries being the operative word. He feels tightly wound, like a spring, and adrenaline is coursing through his veins. He clears his head.

_If I were John, where would I go_?

The kid wasn't smart enough to head back to the orphanage, right? Or rather, he _was_ smart enough not to do that. Because going back there would put the whole place in danger. There'd be a formal investigation of Mr. Wells, who couldn't handle it, Glen and Claire would probably be split up, Nathan and Bryon possibly put in jail, the whole place shut down—

Never mind. John was stupid enough to go there.

Eugene begins down a side street, because he knows that the kid would want to stay to the shadows. He can hear the guards' sharp heels clicking out a pattern on the stone as they travel in groups behind him.

He's jogging now, heart pounding, because he has to catch up to John before he gets back to the orphanage—

"You sorry son of a bitch!" he hears a yell, a thud, and suddenly he turns into the nearest alleyway. Nathan and Bryon are standing over John, who is cowering in the corner, clutching a large bag of gold coins to his chest. "You were going to take that back to the orphanage, weren't you?" Bryon snarls. "You were going to endanger everyone!"

"Eugene," Nathan sounds relieved, turns and comes a few steps towards him.

"The guards are everywhere." Eugene is suddenly immensely angry, and his voice comes out flat and cold. He knows what he has to do and he hates it. Because if this was going to happen he wanted to decide it on his own terms, not on someone else's.

Especially not John's.

"I didn't think—I just—I'm so hungry—" John scrabbles for an excuse and a few gold pieces escape through the top of his bag.

"We're all hungry." Eugene says.

"And you were willing to put everyone in danger. Because you were hungry," Bryon is shaking with rage, and the situation is getting out of hand, and Eugene can hear the guards coming down the side street where the alley is on. He needs to act now, but he doesn't want to. He steps forward.

"How many people saw you?"

"I don't know—ten, maybe?"

"Nathan, Bryon, leave. Get back to the orphanage, the quick way, so the guards don't see you."

"But Eugene—"

"I'll be fine."

"No, we aren't leaving—"

"Do it!" he doesn't usually yell but things are desperate and they need to leave _now_. They sense the urgency in his voice and walk quickly past him, into the alley, where they stop and stare back at him. "Don't waste your life for him," Bryon mutters and then they are gone. He turns his attention back to John.

"The guards will be here in less than a minute."

"I don't know what to do!" John shrieks hysterically, clutching the bag to his chest and rising to his feet.

"You are going to look scared and hand me the money when the guards turn that corner. If they ask why you did it, say I threatened your family, the orphanage. Say it was their safety for the gold. And take a few pieces back—just four or five. That should buy everyone food for a couple of months."

_Poundpoundpound_—

"But…"

"What?" Eugene snaps, motioning for John to come stand in front of him. He does so, until the two are facing each other, clearly in view of the alley's mouth.

_Poundpoundpound_—

The poison has found him at last. Adrenaline courses through his veins, mixed with anger, and it is a heady concoction.

"What about you?" John whispers, and Eugene thinks, for the first time in his life John might be feeling something akin to guilt. He doesn't get to answer, though as the pounding reaches them and five guards round the corner of the alley. John thrusts the gold out shakily, whimpering with actual fear, "Please, sir, just don't hurt me—"

"Stop! You there!"

From the corner of his eye Flynn spies the walrus mustache of the man he ran into forever ago, although it could have only been minutes. Time is passing oddly in his world right now.

_He sprang into action, whipping up a sword from where it lay glittering in a pile of gold near his feet_.

"Did you order this poor boy to steal the gold?"

The guards are advancing slowly. John looks torn between running and cowering. The alley opening is blocked.

"And if I did?" He flashes a devil-may-care grin.

_So it was that he was fervently wishing for a challenge when one came. _

"He threatened to kill my family, sir!" John squeaks. Eugene wants very much to punch him. Without _The Adventures of Flynnigan Ryder _in it his satchel hangs limp and empty at his side. The bag of gold , which he grabbed from John, is thick and heavy, like he is holding a rock the size of the palace between his hands.

"Is it true, boy?" The walrus-bearded mustache man inches forward, hand reaching for the sword at his side.

"Perhaps."

"Enough with the riddles boy, and hand back that gold! You are under arrest for the attempted thievery of the National Bank of Corona and you—

_Flynnigan. Flynn. I. Gan. Flynniganflynnigan._

_What would Flynnigan do?_

"…are hereby and henceforth no longer privileged to live within the walls of the city. Now what is your name boy?"

_Ryder. Ryder. Ryder._

_Eugeneeugeneugene_.

There is a moment's pause and he knows he is standing on the edge of something he will never be able to look back on, thinks for a moment, of his previous life and allows another to dwell on the future in front of him. Heck, being wanted couldn't be all that bad, right? Lots of girls, gold, freedom.

"Your name, boy!"

He opens his mouth to speak and knows whatever comes out of it next will decide his future for years to come.

"Flynn." He smiles dashingly. "Flynn Rider."

He drops the gold in a heap at his feet, where the loose potato sack John had been carrying it in opens and spills its gold contents onto the cobbled street. He sees a path lined in yellow and paved in gold and it takes only a moment this time before he is off, shooting past the guards like a blur, hands free of the gold, heart free of the guilt, head heady with adventure—

Sometimes he feels like running, so he does.

Only this time, he doesn't look back.


	7. Chapter 6

**a/n: **hello everyone, long time no write, or at least that's how it feels like. sorry! finals, and a lot of other needless drama going on. drama sucks. yes. :(

i'm not sure how i feel about this one, but yeah.

i want to thank all my reviewers, because i never thank you guys enough and you really make my day!

* * *

_Chapter Six: Sennit_

_A number of lines interwoven in a complex pattern._

She's been gone from the magic far too long. Her bones creak and crack as she staggers forward through the hanging ivy that covers the entrance to the tower. Joints popping out of place, she stops to lean against the mossy wall of rock behind her. She reaches up to feel the skin on her face and is relieved to find that it remains soft, smooth, and young. Her arms, however, are a different story, and she eyes the age spots with growing distaste. She brushes some hair away from her eyes and the frown deepens as she notices the gray intertwined deeply with the black.

She is decaying from the inside out.

"It's only been three days," she hisses to herself. Her voice cracks. Setting down her basket near her feet she rubs her eyes and fights off the urge to scream. If she had it her way she would wear Rapunzel's pretty little hair around her own neck and let the girl rot. But no, she thinks suddenly, straightening, picking up the basket and eyeing its contents, why would she do that? The girl provides entertainment, if nothing else, and Gothel rather liked being a mother.

She groans, feeling a child again, alone and hungry, trying to decide if she should kill the pretty dog and eat him or perhaps let him go. The basket clatters to the ground and its contents roll onto the grass. Two rounded bottles, glass, filled to the brim with white shells, three jars of sand from the farthest tides, two jugs of widow's tears. Three days trip to the beach for some ingrediants and look what it costs her.

She gathers the things and straightens out, trying to regain her wits. The basket clatters noisily against her knees as she enters the sunlit clearing, blinking rapidly in the light. She daintily crosses the small stream and comes to stand beneath the tower window. She momentarily considers using the back way but decides against it. She does not think her bones could haul her up the ladder.

"Rapunzel!" she says at last, though the first try it comes out a sort of muffled croak and she has to say it again, louder, putting her whole effort into making it ring, "Rapunzel! Let down your hair!"

She hears a clatter from above and suddenly a round head pops out the tower window. "Mother! You're back!"

"I am, dear," Gothel smiles, though it hurts her cheeks, "and I brought a surprise, my flower! Now, let down your hair, so mummy can come up."

"Ok!" Rapunzel steps away from the window and Gothel steps away from the tower base and in a few moments a long, golden stream is pouring forth from the opening above, barely brushing the green grass as it comes to a stop. Gothel deftly twists a few strands and pulls back to make a loop for her foot, and in a moment she is being hoisted up the tower's side.

She does not feel as bad, now that she is in contact with her drug.

Rapunzel gives one final pull and Gothel swings over the window ledge and into the tower room, putting on her best face. "I've got a surprise for you!"

"Mother! You remembered!"

"I did?" she sends a startled gaze over her shoulder as she hangs up her dark blue coat on one of the small hooks hanging by their make-shift door. Rapunzel is eagerly swaying from side to side, a large smile on her face, and for one brief moment Gothel has the urge to curse this girl who ruined the perfect life she had with the flower and who ruined her freedom and her youth and _everything_—

"My birthday! You remembered my birthday!" Rapunzel claps her hands together though her smile shrinks slowly at the surprised look that remains firmly on her mother's face. "Because, well, today's my birthday, and I thought you might have forgot but you didn't…right?"

"Don't be silly, Rapunzel," snap out of it, snap out of it. Her face clears instantly and she is holding her arms open for the girl, patting the glorious gold on her head as she comes for a hug and some reassurance. "Of course I wouldn't forget your birthday. My, how old you're getting, my flower."

"That's right, I'm f—"

"Age hardly matters, dear," Gothel interjects. She's having a hard time controlling the strong urge to make Rapunzel sing right this minute. Instead she reaches into her basket and pulls out some parsnips. The girl looks slightly disappointed as Gothel hands her the food. "Put that away."

"Alright."

"Rapunzel," Gothel watches the girl's back as she shuffles the food into its rightful place in the small kitchen area, "Mother's feeling a little run-down, would you sing to her? Then you can see your birthday present."

"Yes, Mother!" she runs quickly to get a large, plush chair, embroidered with red and crimson much like Gothel's favorite dress, and a tiny stool. She sits on the latter and motions eagerly for Gothel to take her place on the former. The woman does so, gratefully sinking in to the feather-down, brush in hand.

In a few minutes years are erased, and Gothel springs to her feet, quickly heading towards the mirror, noting with an eager eye the shine that had returned to her hair, the smoothness to her arms, and, most importantly, the youth to her joints, which do not hurt as she turns to her daughter. "Thank you, dear," she is happy. And glad she kept this girl around.

"Anytime, Mother. I do love to sing."

"Yes, dear," Gothel turns back to the mirror, poking and prodding at her face and wondering if she should let Rapunzel in on the secret of her hair yet. She decides to wait, because, well, it's better that the girl doesn't know anything, better that she just thinks she has some defect not, heaven forbid, some magical power or something.

But then: "Mother, I was wondering if, for my birthday, you'd let me go outside…"

"What? Go?" She spins around to face Rapunzel, who is twisting her hands fitfully in her lap, still sitting on the low stool. The girl makes quite a sight, with her hair spread and folded behind her. "Go where? Where could you possibly go, Rapunzel?"

"…well, to the grass below. To pick some flowers."

"You mean you want to leave the tower?" Gothel's heart is doing painful palpitations in her chest and, after a moment's pause in which the room is as silent as she's ever heard it and Rapunzel is staring up at her with those damnable green eyes, only then does she realize that her voice went deadly deep and cold.

"Rapunzel, sit down," Gothel says at last, even though Rapunzel's already sitting, and the woman thinks that here she is, twice in one day, losing her wits over some child. She does not want to tell her, but the alternative is much, much worse.

She needs to nip this...this 'outside' wish at the source.

"That is a hefty request, my flower," Gothel manages at last, coming to stand over the girl. "The outside world is a dangerous place."

"But, Mother, I would only go right below the tower, and you could watch me, and I would come back up, right back up—"

"Anybody could be lurking down there, Rapunzel!" Lies, lies, lies. "Ruffians and thugs could be hiding just outside, waiting to hurt you."

"But Mother, I've seen you come and go hundreds of times, and no thugs ever got you."

Damn. "Rapunzel, I am not as valuable as you are! Outside, people see you as a treasure, something they want to steal and keep for themselves."

This confuses her, and for a moment her face is blank as she tries to process the information. Gothel does not like how this is playing out but knows she has no choice. She thinks of what would happen if the girl got a taste of freedom. She'd always be out then, wandering and leaving and running, rarely coming back to the tower, and who knows what would happen to her hair out there. Anybody could cut it, and then Gothel would really be in a bind.

No, it was much better to keep her here, in the tower, because then there was always a set place where she could find her magic flower. Besides, if Gothel didn't have the freedom of living her life, why should Rapunzel?

"Steal…me?" She's gone back to twisting her hands in her lap. "Mother, I don't understand. Why would anyone want to steal me?"

"Your hair! They'd want your hair!"

"But it—it's just hair!" Rapunzel fingers a long strand near her face. "It's just hair that does weird things when I sing. That's all."

How to get the point across to the girl? Gothel steps abruptly towards the kitchen area, toeing the golden strands out of the way as she does. One of the bread cutting knifes is sitting placidly on its side, glinting in the afternoon sunlight. She picks it up and turns back to her daughter.

"Mother wait—"

Rapunzel shoots up and forward but not quickly enough, and Gothel, smiling at the way she can so easily manipulate the child, brings the knife across the upper part of her hand where it leaves a long, red gash that does nothing for a hair's breadth—then the blood wells up and over and pours, warm and red, down her fingers and to the stone below.

"Mother, why did you—I don't understand—"

"Rapunzel," she is quite calm, because the cut hardly hurts, and she is feeling heady with the power that she has over her 'daughter', "wrap your hair around my hand."

"Mother, now is not the time—we need a bandage, some salving potion—"

"Do as I say, Rapunzel," and her voice has gone cold once again. She watches as the girl shakily nears her, avoiding the drops of blood on the floor of the tower, and gingerly wraps some of her hair around Gothel's injured hand. "Now sing."

"But I just—"

"Sing!"

"_Flower, gleam and glow_—"

The hair shines gold and in a few seconds the glow has reached her injured hand and in a few more the song is done and her hair falls away and suddenly, inexplicably to the girl's eyes, but not to Gothel's own, the cut is gone. Nothing is there except smooth, pale skin, and the only two reminders of the bloody incident are the crimson staining both the knife and the floor.

"Your hair does not just glow, my flower. It heals. More importantly, it keeps me strong and fit, young and healthy enough to ensure your safety. Imagine the price someone would pay for that, for the ability to remain young forever."

"I'm…keeping you young, Mother?" The girl staggers back a few feet until she trips over her stool and crashes to the floor. Gothel frowns. She was always so clumsy.

From the shock still spread over her features Gothel can't help but admit that maybe her confession was a little too hasty, yet she can see that she got the point across. "You see why I cannot let you outside for even a moment, Rapunzel? You have too precious a gift. It must be kept safe, for when it can be put to good use."

Stupid, silly girl, still looking like the world has turned upside down. Gothel wipes off the knife and the blood-stained floor and moves to put the goods from her basket away. When she reaches the white shells her hand pauses.

"Oh and here, dear," she says at last, "your birthday gift."


End file.
